Category Archives: POV

As a recently-turned half-a-century young woman, I am finally starting to take the advice of all the self-realized women who have come before me, and stop giving a shit about the things that don’t matter. Let things go. Not care so much about the little things. More importantly, I have realized the importance of saying “no” and trusting my instincts in the process.

There is a great book that was given to my husband a while back, called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life” by Mark Manson. I immediately picked it up and read it cover to cover. The title of this self-help book was so provocative and had me written all over it. What did this guy know that I didn’t? Was it the Holy Grail of life? I had to find out. The truth is though, I have spent most of my life of giving a f*ck about things that don’t matter, and I now realize that I need to lift that monkey off my back.

Like many women, I like to be liked. I need to be liked. I like not making waves. I like to make people happy. And all of that was making me miserable and not living my best life. I was saying “yes” to events that I didn’t want to go to, saying “no” to things I really wanted, and over-scheduling myself, trying to please everyone (and then eventually pleasing no one).

So, I decided to make some internal changes to help shift my perspectives and do some real Adulting and self-care.

As a young girl, I was taught to be “nice” and if someone was mean to me or bullying in some way, their actions were the result of something I had done. Standing up for myself wasn’t on the menu for me growing up, so it’s hardwired in me to always be “nice”. Getting those wires cut is going to take some time.

My husband and I have been raising our daughter to be strong, feel heard, and to take care of her emotional well being by loving herself. Even with our support, she does echo some of my feelings and challenges. That gives me pause and makes me think that this need to be liked, the reluctance to say “no”, is multi- generational. Does it get passed down from mother to daughter and so on, until one breaks the cycle?

My husband does not have this problem. “Do you want to go out to eat?” No. “Do you want to go that party?” No. “How ‘bout…” No. He says what he means. Being with him for almost 20 years, I have learned to be more proactive in trusting my instincts and saying “no”. But I’m not always successful.

Recently, I was invited by a friend, Jane, to a photo shoot at her house. The photographer is a friend of hers who has shot her for various events. I had seen her photos and was excited to accept the invitation. It was communicated to me that it was a ladies’ casual get-together, where the photographer would take shots as we were hanging out. That is perfect for me: low key, low stress and fun.

When I arrived, I was greeted with enthusiasm. Not only that, but I was also greeted with a staged background, that was similar to JC PENNY and photo lights. I started to tense up. The photographer explained that the shoot was going be a Glamour/Vintage set up and wanted me to put on a sexy sleeveless dress. Immediately, I started to stiffen, anxiety enveloping me. It’s been about 5 years since I have worn a sleeveless anything, especially without a spray tan. I’m a Mexican American Diane Keaton. She’s sexy, just covered.

Because the photographer was a good friend of Jane and I didn’t want to make waves, I ignored my feelings and my instincts and complied. I wanted to be easy going and agreeable, so I said “yes”, when I really wanted to say “no”.

Once she took out a fur and had me toss it into the air with the direction of “look sexy”, I was doomed. Beads of sweat were pouring down. She took a few shots and asked me to change outfits so she could move on to Jane.

I ran to the bedroom with clarity. “Get out of here, stat!” I said to myself. I exited the bedroom with a nice long sleeve shirt, approached the photographer and said, “I think you should just take photos with Jane, I don’t really feel comfortable with the way this is coming out. Glamour shots are not my strong suit.” Once those words flowed out of my mouth, I felt free. Wow, I took my power back! This is what it feels like. I love this!

Unfortunately, this feeling lasted only 10 seconds. She replied that I was “kind of insulting her” and that I was making her feel like a “bad photographer”. Boom, I was done. I relented and stayed. I felt bad. Damn. I carried on although I tried not to have too many photos taken. I ended up feeling awful because I knew I would not like the photos.

I drove home in the car wondering where it all went wrong. Why didn’t I just leave? I didn’t know this woman, but I felt I owed it to my friend Jane to stay.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The next day the photographer posted my photos on Facebook and tagged me without my permission. I was mortified! The photos were as bad as I suspected, and now there they were, for everyone to see.

I knew what I must do. Put my “big girl pants” on and buck up. I quickly emailed her, thanking her for inviting me to take photos, but then asked her to please not tag me as I was not comfortable with the shots. She didn’t take it well and ended up deleting the photographs altogether. My first thought was “Thank GOD!” I felt bad for a moment and then thought, her feeling bad is not my responsibility. I was being honest, not hurtful, and I communicated my feelings in a thoughtful way.

Not giving a f*ck.

I’m pretty proud of myself when I do trust my instincts and say “no.” But even when I say no, for some reason, I feel guilty. Guilty for what? I’ve talked to many of my women friends who also feel bad about things they shouldn’t—for being authentic, being honest, and taking care of themselves. Why is this so hard?

This process has also been challenging with my need for being liked. Just because we’re true to ourselves doesn’t mean others will appreciate our self-loyalty and we need to be okay with that…and that being easy going and saying “yes” doesn’t guarantee a good outcome. If a situation doesn’t feel right, I have to trust myself and go with my feelings.

To quote my guru of the moment, Mark Manson, “Maturity is what happens when one learns to only give a f*ck about what’s truly f*ckworthy.”

Sexual Harassment in Hollywood. The #MeToo movement. These bi-lines have been consistently in the news and on my mind. When the Harvey Weinstein case broke a few months ago, no one seemed surprised. It couldn’t get any MORE stereotypical. Obese, unattractive narcissist studio executive taking advantage of his power, making or breaking careers and causing lasting emotional and physical damage to women and men in his wake. Then others started to make news, Kevin Spacey, Brett Ratner, Larry Nassar, Prairie Home Companion legend Garrison Keillor, even the news anchor Matt Lauer blew into a firestorm. From the ashes, the #MeToo movement started its own blaze. Women coming out of the shadows telling hard to tell stories, lighting the darkness they have been living in and giving a voice to the silent. I couldn’t keep track of all the #MeToo hashtags on walls on Facebook. I found myself getting really angry, to the point I had to assess what was really going on with my emotions. I had to start thinking and face my own experiences, events that happened that I’ve either pushed away, laughed off, or denied. Mine were not the extent of most of the brave people that have come forward, but they were enough, enough for me not to trust and question myself for a number of years and they were and are mine to remember.

Anxiety is my middle name, but raising a daughter in this town has kicked it up a notch. All parents want to protect their children; I’m not a special parent. I just read the news and it terrifies me for her future. Growing up in Eagle Rock, we had local perverts but I still walked home from school at nine years old. However, I was very sheltered. Especially when it came to boys. I do have three brothers, but they barely spoke to me and I was pretty naive. Sure, I kissed boys in high school, kissing wasn’t the problem, but I was petrified of sex. Being brought up Catholic and being told “don’t have sex, it’s a sin before marriage” over and over again seeped into the crevices of my brain. When I was fifteen, my mom left me alone with my “boyfriend”. She trusted me. She had every right to, she knew she put the fear of God into me. I never even let him touch my boob when he tried a few times that night. Luckily, he was not a creep. He just tried a few times and when I shut him down, we went downstairs and played a game of pool. I think he left with blue balls. Suffice it to say, we broke up soon after. Whatever that means at fifteen.

Once I started college it was a whole new world, an expanded world including meeting men. Not horny teenage boys, but men in their twenties and thirties I thought were mature. Again, need I remind you that I was sheltered? These men were not just horny, they operated in a different way; more than just trying to get in my bra. It was more calculated. An actress at the time, it never occurred to me that men would not tell me they were married or that a man old enough to be my grandfather would want to kiss me, other than on the cheek. When I started working as an actress, it went to a whole new level. One time a talent agent from one of the largest agencies came to see me in a show. A show that was getting some press and it was the first show to really get some attention. He called me in for a meeting with him. I pull up to a swanky address on Sunset Blvd and entered the elevator to exit at the top penthouse. All walls were windows. I remember thinking “this is it, I am finally where I am supposed to be, someone has recognized my talent and I am at the right place at the right time”. I was taken into a conference room. When I met him in the room, it was weird; he asked me personal questions, if I had a boyfriend, etc. The last question he asked was if is I would go out with him. I was in shock, but somehow I had enough sense to politely decline and get the hell out of there. I left the office feeling deflated, humiliated, and most of all crushed.

I was dense, it took me longer than most to learn and luckily I came out intact, although I sadly became cynical as I went on auditions and acted in plays with men. I always felt they wanted something from me. In the end. I sabotaged myself further down the line little by little, missing auditions, ghosting my agent and eventually quitting. Why should I put myself in these types of situations and would the cost be too high? I had grown weary of what I thought was a “game”, of always being on, looking sexy at every audition. I was over it.

As an young attractive woman, not only did I have it come at me on the business side, but on the personal side as well. Times have not changed. Recently, a young photographer wrote an article about her date/wrestling match with Aziz Ansari. This has been attracting major attention from both sides of the fence. In defense of Mr. Ansari, the Atlantic writer, Caitlin Flannigan, called the women’s account of her experience “3000 words of revenge porn”. Boy, do I have more than 3,000 words for every mauling session I’ve experienced. This particular incident has divided people in the #metoo movement, worried that the story is weakening the voices. But I see it differently. The woman who went on the “bad date” with Mr. Ansari and published it, was using her voice to highlight awareness to women who have not had the training or innate knowledge on how to react to unwanted advances. Mr Ansari is learning the hard way that being a celebrity does not shield you from being characterized as an aggressive a-hole. I do believe behavior is being looked at now and it will constitute a different mode of operandi to interact with one another in social situations. No one can navigate these waters perfectly, but if we keep speaking up, using our voices when circumstances are uncomfortable, change will happen.

As for my daughter, I know I can’t shield her from life, but when she is older, I can share my experiences. What is happening now with the #MeToo, for both men and women, may make the path less harrowing for her to navigate. I have spoken with parents of boys that will teach them respect and how to respect courtship. The Monica Torres Dictionary™ defines courtship as the act, process, or recipe for getting lucky. I will advise her to listen to her inner voice and always have boundaries.

One important point I hope to convey is there is no room for shame. Things happen and mistakes are made in the moment. We’ve all grudgingly sucked an unwanted penis at one time. (Come on, don’t leave me hanging here this is all of us, right?) But not beating one’s self over it, loving yourself, learning and moving on is key. It’s easier said than done, but maybe if I say it to her over and over enough it will enter the crevices of her mind. It’s empowering that women and men are coming out and discussing their experiences openly. If all is right with the world, perpetrators will be going to jail and men and women will narrow the communication gap. I can hope can’t I?

I love Spring Break. Spring is the gateway to summer with beautiful weather and my daughter gets a nice long break to re-group before the end of the school year. However, before this Spring Break, I had some stress. Last November, I planned a family vacation in Mexico, a resort. It’s my dream getaway which includes but not limited to: margarita’s, Mexican food, snorkeling and paddle boarding. This time I planned the trip with two other families. It’s a first for us. With my daughter being an only child, it sometimes can get a bit boring for her with just the three of us. This vacation, she has friends and I can just sit by the pool for a bit and relax. You may be wondering why the stress? The thing is I NEVER get seen in a bathing suit with people I know. Well, almost never. I did go our community pool once and swam. Many of the parents of my daughter’s school were there which made me break out into hives and have a panic attack. Running from the pool deck to the dressing room was the closest I’ve ever come to being in the New York marathon.

Well, something had to be done. Being a procrastinator, four weeks before the trip I decided to hit the gym. I’m in Hollywood; there are so many places to work out. Outside is usually my favorite, but with the heat and my hot flashes, indoors it is. The LA gym scene can be intimidating. I decide my first stop would be the Hollywood YMCA. I love the Y. I mean it’s a place where you don’t have to worry about what you look like at all. Roll out of bed and on to a machine. Everyone is different shapes and sizes and speaking multiple languages, I feel comfortable. I start my workout week with Pilates. Then I move to Zumba which made my head spin. I realize my rhythm is way off and I look like a flailing bird. After a week of classes, I’m starting to feel more energized and less frumpy. Ok, I got this. the classes are good, but I need to step up my game, really go where the hot people are so I can motivate myself and imagine the possibility of looking good. Next stop Easton Gym.

At Easton Gym everyone is hot, including the cleaning crew. Since everyone there has a fitness level of a 9+, I decide to try the Yoga class. Why kill myself? The teacher went light on me given the state of my workout clothes. Shit, I forgot to have a pedicure. I force myself into a Zen state. The class was amazing, I was feeling my muscles again and energized. Being a gym rat is not sounding too bad at this point. After class it’s 11 am, the gym is packed. I’m wondering what these beautiful people do all day to have this kind of time. Being fit is hard work and these people make it their full-time job. I’m jealous; I just don’t have that much time or motivation. I may need something a little in between the YMCA and Easton, so I decide to try a new gym BUILT in Studio City.

Our friends are the owners and let me tell you, they look amazing. I covet their fitness level. They are a dream couple. With that motivation, I get on my tummy hugger leggings and t-shirt with long sleeves and I’m off to the races. Now, this is my speed. The space is gorgeous, the members are various ages and sizes, but there is real training going on here. They have a wide variety of classes, but one in particular catches my eye, the ATTITUDES class. I can bring some attitude. I grab my spot and the ladies come pouring in. I don’t think I’ve been in an exercise class where I’m the youngest one by twenty years, ever. Joining, they eyeball me skeptically. I think how tough can it be? The playlist starts with Fitz and the Tantrums. Well alright. The instructor is fun and engaging. These ladies kick ass and take names. Huffing and puffing and lifting and sweating. The only distraction in the class is the ladies clashing over the air conditioner. By the end, I’m dripping with sweat and I can feel their acceptance. I’m in. A wave a relief and exhilaration washes over me and I’m ready to come back into the fold.

However, as the four weeks whiz by and my routine is cemented, I’m feeling good; really good. But somethings off. My jeans are still tight. There are not falling off me. I’m not looking that great. far from that toned mythical creature I imagined myself to be at the end of 4 weeks. I’m not as young as I used to be. I eat ok; I drink a bit of wine and have limited amounts of stress. The scale doesn’t move that much. I know what I put in my mouth is vital. I try to eat like a mouse. Crumbs. “Oh no” I gasp, vacation is imminent and I cannot wear sweats and a tank top all vacation. Reality sets in. Do I go into a panic mode and have liposuction right away or go to a sweat lodge and sweat for 24 hours straight only drinking water? Am I that vain? I threw cold water over myself and snapped out of it. You see, I’ve raised my daughter with positivity, loving yourself and your body. I better practice what I preach. I decided to do the opposite of my normal self and just let it go. LET IT GO. In my middle age, I strive to free myself from all things neurotic.

Long story short, I did it. I survived. Although I did have my moments, I managed my paranoid fear. For the first time in years, I posted a photo of myself in a bikin. I felt empowered and also thrilled that I could hike up to a gorgeous view after snorkeling all day and snap this photo. I did end up in my bathing suit pretty much 24/7 in front of friends; we were in Mexico for goodness sakes and in the water most of the time. Now that we’re back, I missed working out. The gym is becoming more of a friend than my foe I’ll be headed to back Yoga at Easton, Zumba at the Y, and my ladies at BUILT. This may be the start of a beautiful relationship of being.

For more information on the gym’s mentioned in this blog, please see links below:

La La Land. I know I know. This is the blogger subject of the moment. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar wrote a great piece on his take on the film. Satirical show Saturday Night Live did a pretty spot on skit on the consequences if you don’t like the movie. I tiptoe very carefully when I’m asked if I enjoyed the film, especially in my family. My husband David and I are at an impasse. Now, if you don’t know my husband let me tell you a little bit about him. He’s an actor, attended ACT in San Francisco, his favorite actor is Klaus Kinski. He’s a pretty serious guy. However, this is the first time we have switched perspectives. He loved the movie and thought it was, what was the word he used, oh yes, lovely. I’ve never heard him describe a movie or really anything and anyone else with that specific word in the 17 years we’ve been together. He’s aghast at my distaste for the film. He says I’m being cynical and it’s not a cynical movie. Excuse Me?

La La Land is not about Los Angeles; it’s about La La Land. Individuals who move to Los Angeles to pursue their dreams and connect with others and all things imaginable. I get it; The offramp to our hopes, dreams and good weather. David came here from Northern California via a 1972 Datsun 510, which is still in our driveway. He has been pursuing his dream ever since. Enough about him. I guess the bigger question is what happened to my dream?

When I was in my twenties, it was all so fresh, clear and new. I went to college. I loved it. Acting, the theater, everything about it was magical. Opportunities were open to me. I did odd jobs to pay the bills, but who cared when I got off work, I started rehearsing a show in a 60 seat theater and loved every minute of it. Landing an agent was relatively easy for me. I went on auditions, I was cast in a few commercials and bit TV shows. Hey, it was the 90’s. But ever so slowly certain experiences changed the way I started to view my dream. While I was watching LaLa land, I was finding parallels in my own life and how different the outcome was. In the movie, a casting director attended one of the main protagonists, Mia’s, one-person show. She was invited to audition and she got the part. How many times did a casting director come to see my show and I auditioned for them with either a “thanks for coming in” or “you weren’t quite right for it but I’ll keep you in mind.” One time an agent came to see a show that I was in and invited me to his office. I thought that finally, I was going to have a “big agency” represent me. What happened, he wanted to date me. No thank you. La La Land was slowly fading and Los Angeles was becoming my new landscape. My heart was beginning to crack. On one particular memorable afternoon, I left an important audition and afterwards felt an emotion I’d never experienced with my career, total heartbreak.

See heartbreaking for a little while is doable. Heartbreaking for fifteen years is a long distance marathon that never ends. Eventually, I took a detour. I remember the day exactly, just like Mia, I gave up out of emotional survival. Unlike her, I didn’t go back the next day or the following week or month. I ended taking a promotion in my day job and ended up being successful in a different career. However, something was missing for me and at various times I looked back wondering if I did the right thing. I never quite felt like myself. After I had my daughter there was a feeling or need or maybe it was just realizing I must express myself creatively. It became apparent it was necessity for me to move forward. I also had a huge desire for my daughter to know me, not just the mom that came home from work everyday, but one the woman who can produce, write, and drive my own creative projects.

Besides my husband, I have close friends still going for it, auditions, acting classes. Women in their forties. No one needs to tell them it’s challenging. Being an artist is not like any other. You are a vulnerable being, putting yourself out there for the cruelest of scrutiny, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Because really there is no other way to live your life. But it is not La La Land anymore, just the City of Angels where you can still choose to be anything.

I have softened a bit on La La Land, (believe me) I have my issues with it. I still see the beauty of having dreams and fulfilling them in even the smallest of ways however bittersweet. Maybe La La Land is for the young, I’m not sure. As I’ve somewhat matured, I strive to find balance between family, work, and creativity in my city of Los Angeles.

I Lyft in Los Angeles. I do, I admit it. I have grown to dislike driving greatly due to the fact I’ve commuted most of my entire driving life up until a couple years ago. I Lyft to parties where there is no parking, to movies, events, and to work. The catch is, I work 5 minutes from my house. Now you’re thinking “typical LA” having someone driving you to work a total of seven blocks is pathetic, let me explain. The first few months I had a spring in my step walking to work every day. It was glorious. Feeling like I was a part of the city, moving my body, refreshed for work, However, my spring turned to agitation and depression realizing I was the only person walking on Sunset Boulevard in the morning except for the deranged Hollywood inhabitants that will pull down their pants and pee on the sidewalk screaming “Here’s a cocktail for ya.” Don’t misunderstand me, I have empathy for our Los Angeles Homeless situation, but when you witness, experience, are a part of it on your way to work every day it can get emotionally draining.

Then, I downloaded Lyft app. Cue Adele and clouds lifting. Now, I do not Lyft every day, but it does come in handy in weather and if I’m wearing high heeled shoes. The thing about Lyft is it’s not just a car service. The drivers are a cast of diverse beings that are rich in storytelling. One time, I heard this drivers story about how his girlfriend wanted to marry him so he kicked her to the curb. He was going places and he can’t be held back.

My daughter hates Lyft. She doesn’t like the strangers. I get it. It is strange. Sometimes, I feel uncomfortable. Especially when the drivers talk the entire time. I realize that most people feel uncomfortable with silence. I don’t. When the driver starts the chit chat, I just don’t have it in me to tell them after 10 minutes and hearing about their commercial audition, their voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Plus, if they’re talking away, they drive like 2 miles an hour. Or they drive with a lead foot and break so hard that your neck feels like it’s going to split in half or feel nauseous like I’ve been on a Caribbean cruise. I’ve been given advice, told about life stories, and big dreams. By the end of the ride, sometimes I think they might hug me goodbye.

One day though, I had a tough day, really tough. I was picking up take out after work and had bags full of food waiting for my lyft to pick me up and take me home where I could have a glass of wine and wallow in my sorrows. The Lyft arrived and here was this sweet young guy and he asked how I was. Then I did it. I teared up. God. I was embarrassed beyond belief. We were just quiet the entire ride to my home. When we arrived, he looked back and said “I really hope you feel better.” It was so sweet and it restored my faith in humanity. Go figure. So, I will press on with my Lyft excursions which includes all the chatting, sketch driving, weird music and all. It is Los Angeles after all and I embrace the adventure.

Despite the “cool” trend of having kids in one’s twenties, I waited until the very last second to have my daughter. I was frightened out of my mind to have a kid, to have to think about anyone else but myself and to worry about shaping and guiding a human being that my husband and I willingly brought into the world.

Silly me.

Once I had my daughter, I knew it was all good. Sure, it’s challenging, but I have this really fantastic kid. Flash forward seven years later. All is still good, except for one thing. A little while back, I started to feel strange, like hot, like really hot.

At night, I would open all the windows and still be sweating. Sweat lodge sweating. I mean, hey I am in my mid-forties—what’s the deal? I’m still young! Night after night sweating episodes and still no sleeping; no, I’m not that young.

When I hang out with the parents from my daughter’s second grade class, it is very clear that I am one of the “older” ones. As a classic narcissist, I still do think of myself as an eternally young Generation X’er. However, these days I am really starting to understand what being an older parent really means. The fairly noticeable part is that at the ripe old age of 46, I have entered the stage of menopause. And let me tell you, it stinks.

One day, I was out shopping with my daughter and we were trying on clothes in the dressing room. All of the sudden this extreme heat and inability to breathe hit me like a clap of thunder. I honestly thought I was going to pass out. After we left the dressing room, the attendant took the items out of my hands inspecting them to ensure there was no sweat damage to them. Good times.

I always thought I was prepared for this passage in life. But as I have often done, I am deluding myself. Already prone to anxiety and PMS, menopause has brought a “special” component to these experiences, with an “are you out of your bat shit mind” and “please stop crying” aspect to them; like you know you are out of your mind, but the train has already left the station and if you try to stop it, the train will flatten you.

Now mind you, I take full responsibility for my actions. There are no excuses for acting like a complete lunatic and not taking ownership of it. I’m lucky my husband has forgiven me for my outbursts and I don’t excuse them.

All menopausal experiences are different, so don’t let me scare you. This is just my experience.

The one thing I do know is that I need help, prescription-based, or otherwise, and a willingness to seek help is always the first sign of sanity. I started my research, even looking at the Suzanne Somers’ Healthy and Clean living website. How is that for humbling? I have a tendency to think things will pass quickly and I can weather the storm and somehow control it. Sadly, I cannot control menopause.

I don’t want my daughter to remember this as the time when her mother went nuts, freaking her out in any some way. My age has given me the wisdom to know that my experience in this may need some extra care and attention and with that I have faith that my “normal” self will reemerge in the relatively near future. Help is out there, and I know that there is a huge comfort in that.

Since I am at the age where I log into Facebook to find my daily news, I can’t help noticing all the headlines of the “surprise” break-up’s of some well-liked celebrities. This summer was a particular maelstrom of beauty and brawn colliding. One was particularly intriguing for me. I became obsessed with the Jennifer Garner/Ben Affleck break up. Facebook wasn’t giving me enough details so I went to People online. Don’t judge me. There was headlining news on my Yahoo page and minute by minute updates. After a week, I was all but bored and then THE NANNY happened; it sent me over the edge. I mean, how pedestrian. Who doesn’t have an affair with the nanny these days?

After reeling from this shocking news, I went to the deep corner of my mind to reflect on my own marriage. By Hollywood standards my hubby and I are ok, heck we might as well be booking a cruise ship to Alaska to celebrate the longevity of our relationship. Why us? Why have we made it this long. We were quite different, he’s an athlete, never wears shoes, and has a regular outfit of Carhart shorts and dirty t shirts. I am lucky to exercise once a week, shopping is my cardio. My favorite band is Duran Duran. I decided to do an outreach to the couples I know on Facebook. I asked why do men cheat with the nanny? The most pervasive answer was that maybe the wife was a dead fish in bed. Ouch. Really, there are plenty of guys that don’t know what they are doing. Not that I know anything about that.

Why was I so obsessed, was I scared, threatened? Not really, but it made me think about the aspects of why my relationship works, somewhat. So, I decided to compile a list of reasons, explanations, rationales, what have you’s as to why my Hollywood marriage has survived. Hopefully, this will shed some light:

1.Both of you must not hate each other at the same time. This is key. If you hate each other together, you might as well call it a day. 2. Always do an activity that you did before you were married. Do you think I want to go rock climbing for three weeks without a shower? No, I do not. But I will do it for a whole day and he gets all the attention.3. Laugh. That seems easy, but it is not. As you go through the marathon of marriage things come up, responsibilities, kids, family. Don’t forget the laughter. 4. Do not leave each other for weeks at a time. That is my personal stance, I hear disagreement from some of you , but for me one week is enough time apart. You cannot bolt from someone when they are around all the time.5. Last but not least, have sex, I know you’re tired, man I could go to sleep at 8PM. But, no excuses. Ante up people, there ain’t no free lunch.

There you go, my pearls of wisdom. Feel free to discuss, debate please. However, even after re-reading my list, one of the biggest pieces of the marriage puzzle is that you have to want to be in it, all of it, the crap, the tears, and the lack of hygiene, all of it. Who’s to say what happens in the future, but this is our present. Well, I’m off, I promised my husband we’d go camping in the woods with no bathroom or running water. Neat.

Los Angeles has an obsession over exercise. As I walk around my Hollywood neighborhood, there are plenty of ladies and men in their yoga pants, Puma sneakers, and pony tails rushing around to catch their next class at the gym or trail run. Los Angeles really has it all, hiking at the trendy Runyon Canyon, Cardio-Barre for the long lean look, Soul Cycle for that cardio with celebrities. The most popular form of exercise on a consistent basis is yoga. There are also various kinds of yoga practice, Kundulini, Hatha, Bikram, Iyengar. I have a mommy friend that practices yoga five times a week without fail. It keeps her sane. My daughter practices yoga at school and she has been very helpful in telling me I need to stretch and move my body since after work, making dinner, and cleaning up dishes all I want to do is lay on the couch. Therefore due to my my kid’s cajoling, I will lift my head out of the ground hole I’ve dug for myself and venture out to the exercise world. Yoga sounds good. It’s a time for a spiritual practice, a time to reflect and breathe and be present for myself. It’s a time for reflection all the while moving my body and connecting. I will be different this time from my past exercise failures. I will commit. I will come to it with an open heart, a large set of black workout pants, and a tank top with a picture of either Neil Diamond or Duran Duran on it ready to go.

Learning from my past experience, I come to the table braced for the typical LA yoga class. There are rules and I am not an amateur to this scene. One must be prepared and not deviate, because one false move and you will get a one way ticket to the yoga hall of shame never to be seen again until months later when the class has shifted to a new instructor and you can show your face again with dignity and promise to pose another day. Let me share my words of wisdom and help those who are looking to venture out in Los Angeles for their first time practicing yoga.

These are the hard and fast rules for Los Angeles yoga.

Wear high-waisted pants. There is nothing worse than bending over for over 90 minutes with the awareness that your ass crack is on display. This will nullify all that you came to yoga for creating a aggravating experience of self consciousness.

Always arrive 30 minutes early. You do not want to be the last one to put down your yoga mat after 50 people go in ahead of you. Once seated, the Yogonians will not let you squish in and you have to very politely ask someone to move over, which is never well received. It starts off class on a bad note. Aside: Do not arrive late. Meaning, do not arrive on time. On time is late. One time I arrived to class on time and was not allowed in class because on time is really ten minutes early and on time is late. Confused? I was.

Neverand I mean never forget your yoga mat. Do you really want to borrow one? Have you seen the sweat of these people after class? Enough said

Don’t even try to hide in the back. This is a rookie mistake. LA yoga instructors will find you. There is no hiding from them. They are swift and come to you quickly to point out all your wrong moves. They will mock your efforts, have you do the pose over and over again until you get it right or your until back goes out. This is a key step to follow.

If you cannot stick a particular yoga pose, move right into child’s pose. You don’t want to be seen out there struggling in the wind. Fighting for your life to keep a pose. The yoga class is very competitive, a natural selection process. Only the strong will survive. Don’t even try to compete, you will obtain respect going into child’s pose immediately.

If you are insecure about your body stay away from HOT YOGA. Hot Yoga may sound enticing since you are supposed to be burning more calories from the heat, however, every Angeleno in the class will be 120 pounds or thinner including the men. This will make the experience an unhappy experience, therefore skip this altogether.

If Step 6 is your issue, go to a Pre-Natal yoga class. It is very relaxing with the expecting mommies and everyone is very accepting.

There you have it. This is a go to 7 step tutorial for the LA yoga scene. As you can read, there is much to retain before getting in touch with yourself and remaining present. It takes effort but for those who endure the possibilities are endless. This has got me ready, ready to get out there and start this journey. But before I begin, I better stream a couple of Yoga classes on Netflix and limber up for a few days before I head over to the Yoga Studio just to make sure I have everything down. I guess that should be step 1. Oh well. Namaste.

As I am in the thick of my Hollywood mom mid-life crisis and reflecting on my youth, I have been amazed (and surprised) how it has changed my perspective in my relationships. Let me be more specific. My female relationships. Oh, sure you always hear women say that men don’t bond as natural as women do. We have pillow fights, tickle each other, and talk all night about sex. At least that’s how my husband views it. I’m here to tell you it ain’t so. However, my friendships with women have changed over the years. In the creative and non-creative world, I have maintained and nurtured friendships, some have lasted, some have sunk to the bottom of the ocean like the Titanic. In my twenties, I had an abundance of female friends, however in the acting world there was always this underlying level of competition and believe me it wasn’t healthy. If my friend booked a commercial I would be happy for her, but I would get down on myself and it fueled this underlying self-inflected thought of what a loser I was and felt myself looking at others to measure my worth. If my friend booked a part in a play I auditioned for, I was not happy for her….at all. I seemed to gravitate towards my guy friends, they were less threatening and more supportive, until they wanted to eventually have sex with me, which ultimately always ended badly. This was not a good time for me.

Auditions were brutal. The set-up is this: you are in a room with the 40 other girls vying for the same role. Need I say more? You better be prepared. I was naive and always chatted with the actresses in the casting office. I remember their comments would psych me out before I went into the room, “you should try wearing make-up” or “you have a space between your teeth, you should get that fixed”, I heard it all. I learned to toughen up and not talk to anyone in the room and look straight ahead. Even though it worked better for me, putting my game face on, it somehow made me feel unauthentic. I valued my female relationships but I was distant and competitive.

The catalyst that made me start re-thinking my attitude was when I was cast in a play in the mid-nineties. I was cast in a role, probably was the juiciest of parts. I met this woman who I knew may have wanted that part, but was cast in another role. The director and I were not connecting and I was frustrated and scared that I was going to be horrible. While we were in rehearsals, she could see that I was struggling. This woman reached out to me and said if I wanted, she would help me. Uncharacteristically, I said yes and she and I rehearsed for hours, she gave me her time, encouragement, and expertise. We became friends, not just casual friends, but someone I would later on down the years count on for help in various areas in my life.

When I began writing my web series in my forties, my paradigm changed. I craved my creative female friends, I wanted to work with them, spend time, and create art together. I found that even though there were times I hadn’t spoken to my friends in years, those relationship came right back. Gone was the fear, the competition, the FOMO. I LOVED that my friends were putting themselves out there creatively and admired how each woman had their own story to tell, balanced their lives, and kept it going. It inspired me to move forward with my project and move through all the challenges, I had them in my corner and I was in theirs.

Also, I found a new word in my vocabulary. Collaboration. I reach out to women writers, directors, anyone that I can work with and talk, learn from; it is the most rewarding time in my life. I want to help my friends and if I can contribute in any way to get them where they want to be, I’m in. In the past, I would have turned my back collaborating with women. The truth is Hollywood women are not cutthroat, waiting for the time to strike while swilling a glass of chardonnay, but a community of support and one club I am happy to be a member.

Watch me and my collaboration with MomCave . I had a blast going to New York and chatting with these creative ladies!

In 2012 a Gallup Health and Well-Being Index revealed that women approaching midlife had the highest levels of stress among all age groups and genders. What’s worse, according to the study, they were far more stressed out than previous generations of women, and there didn’t seem to be any relief in sight. Today’s women are raising children, working, caring for aging parents, and tending to their partners (or trying to), while doing their best to remain fresh and youthful. And as a result, they feel too stretched, too overwhelmed, too exhausted, too unappreciated, and way too weary.

In fact, the study highlighted the fact that among a range of emotions experiences by these over-worked and under-appreciated women, the most pronounced was guilt. No matter how much they worked, no matter how thinly they were spread, no matter how caring, giving, and sacrificing (and no matter how damned good they looked while engaging in all of their service-related activities) it never felt like they were doing enough — there was always more they believed they could/should/needed to do.

This perfectionism is eating away at the mental and physical health of today’s women, and oftentimes at the core of many women’s souls lurks a fear that they are failing not only themselves, their employers and their partners, but their children as well.

I am the mother of a college-aged son who I parented alone for most of his life. I worked throughout his childhood in a high pressure job as a college professor, which afforded me a decent income and a fair amount of flexibility, but was also a source of almost non-stop pressure. On the outside I appeared relatively put-together, and I consistently received positive feedback from my friends and family who were in awe of how much I could handle — teaching a full course load, while working on a PhD, while being an active and engaged parent, while traveling around the world for research, while still managing to attend virtually all of my son’s baseball games and a range of school-related activities. And as age (and stress) began to take a mutual toll on my face and body, my self-esteem on any given day teetered between “just a mom” and “the invisible woman.”

Now, while I loved being a mom more than I can possibly describe, and while I appreciated the flexibility and adventure my career afforded me, most of the time inside my head I was a complete train wreck, and much like my female counterparts from the Gallup index, I was riddled with the type of guilt that comes from the perfectionist belief that nothing I did was ever going to be quite good enough. I felt guilt when I was at work and not at home. I felt guilt when I was at home and not at work. I felt guilt when I was at school, and neither at home nor at work. I was stretched out, maxed out, whacked out and guilted out on an almost constant basis, fearing I was stretched so thin, that I wasn’t giving my best in any domain in my life.

And the worst part? I had no one to talk to about my feelings and my fears because from my vantage point, everyone else seemed to be doing just fine – swimming effortlessly through their day, without a care or concern in the world. And in an attempt not to burden anyone, or destroy my image of the all-together-have-it-all woman, I kept my lamenting and angst to myself and forged ahead with twirling baton in hand.

Now that my son is away at college and I’ve had some time to reflect on those early years, I realize that my opinion of other women having it more together than I was likely based on the same false premise as their inflated opinions of me. The reality is that no one in my world, not even my female friends, were willing to openly admit their feelings of insufficiency and insecurity and talk about their guilt. It seemed as though we were all trying to live up to some perfectionistic pioneer reality that dictated days spent spinning from task to task, with seamless timing and effortless coordination. And yet nothing could have been further from the truth — at least for me, and I strongly suspect for all of the other women in my life as well.

So now that I have surpassed the stage of daily parenting responsibilities and have reached the point in my life where I’ve proactively chucked my guilt right out the proverbial window, I thought I’d do my younger sisters a favor and cough up some confessions, so that they can take a collective breath, let down their guard, and with all the strength they have remaining at the end of the day, chuck their own guilt right out the window as well. So here goes:

My son never went to bed on time during his entire childhood, not ever, not once. So every once in a while when I sensed that I was near death, I imagined I saw a rash brewing on his chest and gave him a li’l dollop of Benadryl, put him to bed, and then took a bubble bath, with wine.

I would rather fry my head in a microwave with an aluminum foil cap than attend Curriculum Night, so I didn’t.

I proudly watched my son play baseball for one entire season from the warmth of my car (with heated seats) because it never rose above 40 degrees. During warmer seasons I often sat on the opposing side because I could pick up a wireless signal on my laptop more easily.

To this day I remain very proud of my Egypt and Rock projects.

I rarely, if ever cooked. Rather, I let Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods do the cooking for me.

All those occasions when people popped over unexpectedly and I apologized for the mess claiming I was in the midst of giant reorganization project? I lied; that was my home’s normal fare.

My son once caught two praying mantises and they laid an egg sac in a screened cage in our living room. One morning to my son’s glee and my horror there were at least 3000, if not more baby praying mantises jumping around the cage. The next day I noticed the cage door open and virtually all of the babies were gone. For months I’d see a random 6 inch praying mantis scurrying across the living room floor — in the middle of a dinner party, a work-related meeting, or a holiday gathering. I always acted shocked in front of my guests, so as not to let on that there were another 2999 giant stick bugs looming right under their noses (and pant legs).

I worked for three weeks using a calendar from the wrong year. I finally figured it out when I kept showing up to meetings on the wrong day.

Some days I only had time to shave one leg.

My son graduated from high school with an average GPA and an average ACT score and still managed to get into a really great college, and now he’s having the time of his life.

Despite winging it all of those years, and despite spending 18 years running 30 minutes late, and despite the days when showering before noon was the biggest accomplishment I was going to have all week, and despite losing track of my son’s homework more days than not, and despite driving to work far too many days with a coffee cup on the roof of my car (and my son’s homework in my backseat), my son turned out just fine, great in fact. And my career survived, and my family and friends survived, and I survived – no we actually flourished. And although we didn’t have a traditional life, and while I certainly wasn’t a traditional mom, we made it work, and every day we experienced joy — wonderful, spectacular unscripted joy.

So what is my message to all the women out there trying to balance it all and feeling too much self-deprecating and perfectionistic guilt in the process?

Chuck the guilt out the window, once and for all.

Don’t ever say anything to yourself that you wouldn’t say to your best friend.

Whatever you’re doing, it’s enough.

Perfection is boring.

Take more bubble baths (with wine).

About Michelle: Dr. Michelle Martin is an author, blogger, consultant and single mom of one college-aged son. A “recovering academic,” Michelle is now a contributing blogger for the Huffington Post where she writes about her life as middle-aged, empty-nesting single mom re-entering the dating world after a two decade hiatus. Michelle has an Master of Social Work and a PhD in peace studies. She is the author of three books and is currently working on her fourth book, inspired by her blogs, exploring ways in which women can have transformative experiences in middle age. Michelle lives in Chicago with her two dogs, a Golden Retriever and Toy Poodle. Follow her @drmconfesses